Urgh. What a stupid idea THAT was. I woke up at 3pm, realising instantly that at 3pm, I’m supposed to be on board the Trochetia for the trip back to Réunion. I rubbed my eyes and headed for the shower, for the first time in my life thankful that it was cold. My body was just as surprised as I was that I was a) still alive and b) in the correct room of the correct hotel. Seriously. A few years ago, my mate Dan Martin and I were as drunk as lords in Morocco and not only did we wake up the next day in the wrong room, we also soon realised that we had waltzed into the wrong hotel. Night staff never see you check-in, do they? Little tip for you there, if you’ve got the guts.

So after saying my fond farewells to the owner of the guesthouse, I made my way through the (merciful, refreshing) rain and grabbed a taxi that was being driven by a rather over-enthusiastic taxi-driver. He talked and talked, but all I could do was grunt and hope he didn’t take the corners too fast. I got to the boat and discovered that the Bureau de Change was closed (it being Sunday) which meant there was absolutely no way of translating yesterday’s winnings back into real money, such as Euros.

Cursing the system, I boarded the old Troch, hopefully for the last time. I managed to survive until about 9pm before I realised that I wouldn’t be getting any sleep if I didn’t relieve my body of at least some of the junk my liver was struggling to process. So I calmly walked to the communal toilet and did the best impression of the little girl from The Exorcist you have ever seen. My head then rotated 360 degrees and I did a weird backwards spider walk to my cabin, hissing at anyone who came near. I slept the sleep of the angels.